


From Now On, for Eternity

by sucxs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Anorexia, Archangel Raphael - Freeform, Archangels, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Depression, Eating Disorders, First Time, Flashbacks, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Heaven & Hell, Historical, Hozier, Inaccurate Christianity, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, NOT A ONE SHOT, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Not porn, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Plans For The Future, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives, Queen (Band) References, Slow Burn, So Married, Suicide Attempt, Trauma, as much like the book as possible, bookshop antics, maybe canon compliant, not to spoil it but gotta have those warnings, trip to America!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2020-12-27 04:31:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21112685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sucxs/pseuds/sucxs
Summary: Crowley & Aziraphale have successfully averted the apocalypse and now is the time to live the rest of their lives, unbothered. But eternity can be a bit boring, lagging, and, you know, eternal. The good news? There's always time.





	1. Chapter 1

The closest the bus came to SoHo was Marble Arch, for some reason, which distressed Aziraphale. He didn’t quite like walking through the dark streets of London. He was much more of a daytime person. Crowley, on the other hand, was delighted. Dark was the perfect opportunity to walk blindly for hours and bother couples in alleyways. He mentioned this in passing, much to Aziraphale’s dismay. When they reached the ruin of the bookshop, they paused. As if on cue, someone began humming in the background. Beethoven?  
“Spooky,” said Crowley. He shrugged and waited for Aziraphale to overcome his self-pity. He couldn’t show how deeply he understood the angel’s sorrow, though; it would be against his vibes. What vibes? He thought, momentarily distracted.  
“Come on, angel. We can fix it up tomorrow.” Aziraphale frowned at the ground and agreed, carrying on around the corner.  
“Listen, maybe we should just grab a cab, and…” Crowley was fumbling. What do you do about a devastated bookshop and an upset angel?  
“It’s alright,” Aziraphale conceded, attempting a smirk. Neither of them knew what was happening anymore. Heaven and Hell were beaten, not by each other, but by a bastard angel and a not-so-bad demon. How could they continue from there? Nothing fit into place as it had before. Aziraphale wasn’t quite certain if this was positive, but in a way, he was much less fearful than before. There would be no angels at his throat tonight. 

When they reached the dark, explicitly mahogany door to Crowley’s flat, it was past midnight. Everything was suspiciously peaceful for a post-apocalyptic evening. It was painfully familiar, from the black jackets hanging in the entryway to the omnipresent new-house smell that made Aziraphale slightly uneasy. He hung his coat with the others and sighed.  
“Buck up, angel,” Crowley chided, sauntering into the sitting room. “It’s the first day of the rest of our lives!” He held his arms out to a T and flourished dramatically.  
“Oh, I don’t know, Crowley. It’s best we just have a quiet night.”  
Crowley’s grin fell from his face.  
“Quiet night? We just averted the apocalypse and you’re asking for a quiet night? What does that even entail, exactly?”  
Aziraphale sat gracefully on the lavishly expensive, vintage leather sofa near the entryway. “Any number of things! Some tea, a nice read, maybe. Shouldn’t we make plans for tomorrow?” He smiled,  
“We could go on holiday!”  
Crowley glared, more with his lips than eyes, obviously, and poured himself a large glass of wine. He poured another for Aziraphale and forced it into his hands. His face felt uncomfortably hot.  
“Have a drink, at least.” He flopped onto the sofa, barely averting Aziraphale’s lap, he sprawled so far. The silence between them grew uncomfortable as they sipped their drinks. Crowley tried to gather his ideas, put together some sort of cohesive sentence, about a number of things, an apology maybe? He could start with that. No, there were more pressing matters. He couldn’t just…  
“Crowley, dear,”  
Aziraphale’s voice was quiet, somehow calmer than before. “I don’t think we can carry on the Arrangement like before.”  
Crowley choked. Can’t carry on the Arrangement?  
“Of course not! That’s all over. Haha,” He laughed nervously.  
“So, anyway, so because of that, I was thinking: it’s time to move on.”  
Crowley’s head spun. Moving on meant moving apart, didn’t it? This is what humans called “breaking up.” This wasn’t the ineffable plan. This was something dark and terrible, and wrong, and heartbreaking, and oh god,  
“Yeah,” He mumbled, “time to move on, yeah.” Despite his efforts, he was visibly devastated.  
“I thought, instead,” began Aziraphale, “instead of serving good and evil, and that whole lot…” he paused,  
“I thought we could spend some time being… just us. Ourselves.” Crowley had leaned into the other side of the couch, and nodded forward a bit, gulping his wine.  
“I’ve known you for 6,000 years, Crowley,” Aziraphale continued,  
“But I’ve never been able to see you for who you really are.”  
“An idiot?”  
“No, Crowley! You know, you really are dense.” He set down his drink, silently scoffing at the perfectly polished, 100% resin side table Crowley elected to put in his home. He supposed this was the so-called “minimalism” the demon preached.  
“I don’t know how to say this,” He rested his hand on Crowley’s knee,  
“And Heaven surely would never approve,”  
Crowley was screaming; internally, of course. He was most certainly red in the face. A mirror would be handy.  
“But you’re the most charming, witty, generally excellent individual I’ve ever met. You’re a lot more than just a demon, at least.” They sat in silence for a moment, and Crowley brought his hand to meet Aziraphale’s.  
“Don’t say that, angel,” he said. His voice cracked unexpectedly, quite to his embarrassment.  
“I mean it, though.”  
Crowley coughed. He wanted to move closer, but after being accused for decades of being too fast, he wasn’t going to reveal himself as a pining, lonely fool.  
“I love you, Crowley.”  
“You love everybody,” Crowley snapped. Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
“You know what I mean,” He reached for Crowley’s glasses and set them gently away, noticing the tears in his eyes.  
He sniffed. Despite his best efforts, a tear rolled down his cheek.  
“I, uh…” He couldn’t form words. If he tried any longer, he would probably start sobbing, which was incredibly inappropriate, given the context. He shifted a bit in his seat, uncomfortable. Aziraphale brought his palms to Crowley’s jawbone, wiping tears with his thumb. His fingers traced up through soft, fiery hair. Finally, Crowley met his gaze. The angel’s bright eyes cut straight through him. Bright as the midsummer sky, like always. God, they were beautiful.  
“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out art for ch1 here: https://bizzy-bee-draws.tumblr.com/image/188517323990 
> 
> also please God teach me how to hyperlink on this cursed website


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale didn’t sleep much, but Crowley seemed to like it, so he lounged around for a while, waiting. Six seemed a reasonable time to start the day, but by eight he was getting restless. Hadn’t Crowley slept for a whole century one time? Aziraphale silently hoped he wouldn't do that again. He sat back down on the bed, the dark, 1500-thread-count sheets soft against his fingers. Part of him didn’t dare wake his peaceful, yet drooling, lover. The other part of him, though, knew the smug asshole deserved to be woken at any unreasonable time he so desired. “Crowley!” he cood, “Helloooo? Wake up, dear.” He poked him, gently. It didn’t work. He continued calling his name. He shook him, quite violently. The demon continued sleeping. Damn it! Aziraphale thought, quite rebelliously. Now, where did Crowley keep his records? He looked about the room, but there was nothing out of place and not a record in sight. His own bowtie was draped across the dresser, and he smirked at its contrast against the dark furniture. He began opening drawers and searching, but remembered seeing an obvious collection in the sitting room last night. An entire shelf, in fact. He hurried downstairs, pulled out the nearest vinyl from its pristine paper slip, and placed it on the turntable. He set the volume to what he figured was full blast, and flicked the on switch. Some very loud singing began, followed by an upbeat guitar solo. Aziraphale suffered and waited. About two minutes into the song, Crowley came rushing downstairs in his shiny silk pyjamas, singing “FAT BOTTOMED GIRLS!” at the top of his lungs. He carried on headbanging, whie Aziraphale, unsuccessfully, tried to stop him. Finally, he stopped the record all together.  
“Aw, come on angel! That’s such a fucking JAM!”  
“I was just trying to wake you up, Crowley. You’re really a deep sleeper, you know.”  
“Mm. Well, now you have to make coffee.” He said, perturbed.  
“Yes, alright.” 

As the coffee dripped beside him, Aziraphale began babbling about his many new ideas for the bookshop. Crowley stared blankly, the light reflecting off his sunglasses. He gave a string of “mhm, oh yeah, uhuh, cool, hmm,” and the like. Then suddenly he froze. The Bentley, which had formerly been obliterated, was sitting outside the gate.  
“Um,” he grabbed Aziraphale’s arm and pointed,  
“I’m not so sure you’ll need to worry about renovations.”  
They both gathered up their clothes as fast as possible and hopped in the car, en route to the bookshop. This time Aziraphale had no complaints about driving too fast. 

When they pulled up, everything was in its place and completely undamaged. It was as if the apocalypse had never happened, which it didn’t, Crowley supposed. Aziraphale was ecstatic.  
“Oh, Crowley! This is incredible! Do you think everything’s back to normal?” He carried on while hurrying out of the car. Crowley parked and followed behind him, marveling at the polished storefront. Aziraphale was overjoyed, literally jumping about and remarking on how every book and kicknack was in its original place. Finally he stopped, and fell blissfully into Crowley’s arms.  
“It’s perfect,” he sighed.  
“I think it was Adam,” Crowley remarked,  
“Should we thank him? We could send him a gift! Oh, I bet him and his friends, what do they call themselves? Ah yes, The Them. Well, I bet The Them would love to come to London!”  
Despite Aziraphale’s happy ramblings, Crowley was characteristically melancholy. The resurgence of the shop meant his private fantasies of moving in were pretty much shot. No personalized courtyard greenhouse, no light-blocking curtains. Everything back to the way it was.  
“What’s wrong, dear?” asked the angel, always perceptive.  
“Nothing,” Crowley’s long fingers ran against the spine of a book: An Anthology of English Gentlemen’s Clubs, 1715-1890. Volume I. He feigned interest.  
“I suppose I should head home, then.”  
“Oh, do stay for just a while. We never had our coffee, remember?”  
“Yeah, you still owe me one,” although smug, the demon was ultimately pleased. 

Several hours later, after coffee had come and gone, they had dispersed throughout the house. Aziraphale was absorbed in another story, this time an old Welsh tale about the formerly upcoming apocalypse, and Crowley with a large headset, draped over an armchair. The afternoon was hot and sleepy, and he did, in fact, fall asleep for a while. However, Aziraphale could hear his music all the way downstairs, which was a significant annoyance. Regardless, neither could complain. Eventually Crowley sauntered vaguely downwards and shouted from the stairwell,  
“Lunch?”  
“Lunch.” 

They decided on lunch at a cafe nearby, which was below their usual standards, but seemed appropriately fitting for a day of rest. Aziraphale lingered at the pastry counter while Crowley leaned against it, bothering the barista. She took no interest in a word he said. After a while, Aziraphale settled on several macarons, a cucumber sandwich, and a mocha, insisting on something for Crowley.  
“Black coffee, thanks,” he huffed. Aziraphale insisted, ordering an additional slice of cake. He smiled at Crowley as they reached their table. Aziraphale munched in silence.  
“Cake?” he asked. Crowley shook his head. They sat quietly for a while, watching the other customers. Crowley glanced frequently at his phone. One of them had to address the elephant in the room.  
“Are you moving into the bookshop, Crowley?” Crowley swallowed his coffee audibly; he was shocked Aziraphale had the gall to ask so straight up.  
“Considering it. What, do you trust me?”  
“Trust you? Of course I do! I just…”  
“Remember last time?” 

…  
Aziraphale remembered. Of course he remembered, it was the worst month of his life. He never expected to receive a late night call all the way from Edinburgh, amidst a snowstorm. His “hello?” was interrupted by Crowley’s choking pleas.  
“Angel, please. I fucked up. I really did it this time,” he chuckled desperately,  
“Crowley? What happened?”  
“I can’t explain, just,” he choked,  
“Come here. Now. Please.”  
Aziraphale dropped everything and used an unsponsored miracle to get himself to Edinburgh in under five seconds. He arrived in a dark entryway, ice cracking against the windows outside. The room was freezing and deserted.  
“Crowley!” he called, rushing from room to room. His hand drew across the railing up the stairwell, his head spinning with panic.  
“Crowley!”  
“Here,” his voice was raspy, barely a whisper. Aziraphale rounded the corner into the washroom on the third floor to find him collapsed against the bathtub. The entire stone surface was wet with dark blood, shiny in the dull glow of night. He conjured a light, and Crowley looked up at him. His yellow eyes were wide with fear, his palm pressed into opposite wrist.  
“I can’t stop it,” he coughed. Aziraphale dropped down by his side, gently taking his forearm into his hands, slick with blood. It seemed as if his thoughts were streaming out of his mouth, but somehow he forgot to speak them. He pressed his thumb into the wide vertical cut as Crowley bit his lip and cried, blood rushing back into the wound. With the right side healed, Aziraphale rushed to the left, unconsciously repeating  
“Shh, shh,” his voice shaking. He ran his hand over the thick scar when he finished, adrenaline running through his veins. A tear ran down his cheek,  
“What the Hell, Crowley?”  
Crowley took his hand, pulling himself up.  
“I thought it’d be funny. Wasn’t though, eh?”  
“You think this is a joke?” Aziraphale was furious,  
“You thought it’d be fun to forcefully discorporate yourself? You thought it’d be funny? What did you THINK was going to happen, Crowley? That slitting your own wrists wouldn’t actually affect you? Why would you even try?”  
“I said it was a mistake, angel.” Crowley looked away.  
“Never, ever do that again. I can’t always be there to save you,” the angel snapped.  
He grabbed Crowley by the sleeve and miracled them back to the bookshop. 

That night, Crowley wrapped up on the couch, resting his head against its back. Aziraphale sat on the edge beside him,  
“Drink this,” he said, handing him a cup of steaming tea. Crowley thanked him quietly and avoided his gaze. He knew the angel was still angry with him for causing such a fuss, and he wasn’t going to push his luck. Aziraphale cleared his throat,  
“Crowley, I know the humans are a little behind on issues of mental health, but I’m not as ignorant as you think,”  
“I don’t think you’re ignorant,” Crowley began,  
“Don’t interrupt me,” Aziraphale’s voice was stern,  
“I’m not as ignorant as you think, and I know a suicide attempt when I see one. It makes no difference that you’re not human, because believe it or not, your physical form is quite explicitly human and you must treat it as such.”  
“Come on, angel. The humans do it every day. It’s not a big deal.”  
“It is a big deal, actually,”  
“I was bored and cooped up in fucking Scotland,”  
“Yes, and you clearly can’t be trusted to be alone!” It took every fiber of Aziraphale’s being not to yell,  
“Look,” he brought his voice down,  
“I don’t understand what’s going on in your head, but,”  
“No, you wouldn’t, would you?” His question brought a solemn pause. The clock ticked.  
“You wouldn’t know because you’ve never fallen from Heaven. You aren’t tasked with ruining human lives, day after day. Being evil. You’ll never know what’s ‘going on,’” Crowley cried.  
Aziraphale sniffed nervously, looking down at his hands,  
“You’re right. I’m useless and of no help to you at all.”  
“That’s not what I said,”  
“Oh, it isn’t? You’re a hypocrite, Crowley. That’s what you are. A drama queen and a hypocrite.” He stood,  
“If you decide you want to talk to me, I’ll be upstairs. Goodnight.” He straightened his jacket and left the room.

Crowley feigned sleep, but laid awake for hours. There was no way to express his despondence without confessing his love for Aziraphale. He watched the way he went about life, cheerful and loving, bringing warmth to all around him. He was like a ray of springtime sun, golden and brilliant beyond measure. If anything, he found himself inconceivable jealous of everyone and everything around him. The humans got more action from Aziraphale than he did, with their bright, innocent faces. The angel constantly had to remind him of his demonic status, the traumatic fall from Heaven he’d rather forget. It was funny how people thought Aziraphale had no faults, just because he was an angel. Well, Crowley was an angel once, too, and he had just as many faults as Aziraphale. The antiquity of it was exhausting. Purity this, faith in God that. Bollocks, all of it. The worst part, though, was that he could never tell Aziraphale why he had done it. The angel would always wonder what drove him to purposeful discorporation because the answer would kill him, too. Crowley simply couldn’t live without Aziraphale. He spent centuries trying to move on, latch on to something or someone else, find pleasure in being evil. None of it stuck. The only thought in his mind, always, begging for attention, was Aziraphale. The one he could never have. 

Finally, near dawn, he threw off his blankets and headed upstairs. The bedroom door was closed. He knocked,  
“Aziraphale?” He knocked again,  
“I’m sorry.”  
The door swung open before he could carry on. The angel’s eyes were puffy and he was still dressed in his blood-stained suit. He crossed his arms,  
“And what is it you’re sorry for?”  
“I’m sorry I scared you like that. I shouldn’t have done it, and I shouldn’t have been such a bitch about it, but, Aziraphale, I…” He fought back the urge to cry, again, for eternity,  
“I was so alone. I’m always alone, fucking things up and causing chaos. It’s miserable, I don’t know how,” He was crying now, and couldn’t stop,  
“I don’t know how I ended up like this, such a stupid, caniving asshole,”  
Suddenly, Aziraphale pulled him into his arms mid-sentence, and Crowley’s head fell into his shoulder.  
“I thought maybe I could stop it, but I can’t. I can’t change who I am and bleeding out hurts, do you know how much that hurts, angel? It’s like all the life is leaving your body and I…”  
“Crowley, stop,” Aziraphale tried his best to be comforting, a skill he unfortunately lacked.  
“You’re not alone. It’ll be okay.” His shoulder was damp. Crowley sobbed again,  
“Will it though?” he asked. Aziraphale doubted it,  
“Yes.” 

For weeks after that, Crowley stayed in his depressed state, at the bookshop. He slept all day, drank all night, and really created a living Hell for Aziraphale. He refused to talk, just kept mumbling "a fucking archangel" into his drink. Aziraphale let him be. He made breakfast and dinner, drew a bath each night, and kept their somber silence. He’d never experienced such sorrow. One night, as he put wood on the fire, Crowley came up behind him and sat at his feet.  
“Do you know the stories of Raphael?”  
“Of course,” Aziraphale replied,  
“Sort of outside the canon, though,” He poked at the fire.  
“They make you forget,” Crowley continued,  
“When you get to Hell. It’s like being reborn into a slimier, unnatural version of yourself. You don’t remember anything,” he leaned against an armchair,  
“But their magic’s not so strong. Weaker than Heaven’s at least. If you’re around too long, you start to remember. Start to see things, hear voices. Find scenes out of place. You don’t remember at first, but it sneaks in,” He stuck his hand in the fire, pulled out a flame.  
“The more you remember, the harder it gets.”  
Aziraphale knelt down beside him, finally meeting his gaze.  
“Why are you telling me this, Crowley?” He asked, his voice low.  
“Because I trust you, angel. I trust you with my life.” 

…  
“I don’t think it’ll be like last time,” Aziraphale smiled,  
“Of course, you’re always welcome.”  
Crowley took a bite of chocolate cake, content.  
“S' good. Good choice,” he said, his mouth full. Aziraphale eyed him cooly,  
“Yes, alright Crowley, no need to butter me up. Although, I will have the rest if you don’t want it.”  
“Be my guest.” 

After lunch they took a stroll across London, in their typical fashion. Crowley seemed lost in thought, for the most part, and Aziraphale found himself anxious. He had six centuries’ worth of confessions to make to Crowley, conversations to dive into, but felt he couldn’t begin a single one of them. What if Heaven was watching them now? He never knew exactly what Gabriel and his comrades could and couldn’t see. It nagged at him endlessly. Simply by digging into their files they found evidence of him with Crowley, over decades of content used against him. He hoped their little switchover had led them astray, but he never knew. There was still so much he couldn’t say. He wanted desperately to reach out to Crowley, to hold him and confess everything. It would be so cathartic.  
“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupted his thoughts,  
“I was thinking, I don’t want you to think if I move in it’ll be anything like last time, you know, in 1889. I was in a dark place, I guess…” Aziraphale didn’t want to open this can of worms in public, especially not on a bustling street.  
“I know, dear. Can we,” he looked around nervously,  
“Discuss it later? At home?”  
Crowley looked taken aback.  
“Uh, sure. Yeah, okay.” It was only three o’clock and they had the entire day to fill before the shroud of darkness could hide them from sight. They still had dinner to worry about, and an afternoon full of unstructured daylight. Crowley desperately wanted a nap.  
“We could go home now?” he suggested, half heartedly. Aziraphale hesitated.  
“I don’t know, I’m not used to this whole ‘free time’ together thing. It always felt so hasty before.” His words echoed in Crowley’s head, you go too fast for me. There wasn’t any reason for haste this time. They had all the time in the world. 

Later that evening, after Crowley had taken a cat nap on the sofa and Aziraphale had gone out for groceries, quiet life resumed at the good old bookshop. Crowley came up the hallway and leaned in the doorway. He couldn’t help but gaze at Aziraphale across the room. He was curled up in his favorite armchair, reading glasses on the tip of his nose, his blazer draped over the arm. It was unusual to see him in any state of undress, even down to the straightening of his bowtie, but there he sat, pale blue button down undone to his collarbone. He sighed as he read, the glow of the fire reflecting in his glasses. He was absolutely gorgeous. Crowley could have sat and watched forever.  
“What is it, dear?” Aziraphale asked, keeping his gaze on the page. Crowley sauntered towards him and leaned against the arm of the chair, closer to Aziraphale.  
“Just admiring you, I suppose.” He set down his book and smiled up at Crowley,  
“It’s quite nice having you around,” he mumbled. Crowley leaned down and kissed him, hard, his palm against the angel’s jaw. His glasses clunked against the bridge of his nose and he chuckled, pulling them off and slipping them in his jacket pocket. Aziraphale’s breath was warm against his neck as he kissed into the collar of his shirt. Crowley was overwhelmed, shuddering as he sighed. He buried his face in Aziraphale’s soft curls, painfully aware of his hands on the small of his back. After several minutes, Aziraphale stopped, drawing his fingers down Crowley’s chest.  
“Should we take this upstairs, dear?” He asked. Crowley hesitated,  
“Upstairs? Uh, yeah, okay.” He stood, fixing his hair and clearing his throat. Aziraphale turned out the light and took his hand. He drew his thumb across his palm, gently guiding him through the twists and turns of the bookshop and up the creaky old stairs. Crowley’s heart was beating out of his chest. He truly thought this would never happen. Maybe it wasn’t happening; it could be some fantastic fever dream. He stopped before Aziraphale could pull him through the doorway.  
“Angel, listen, I…” He choked on his words. Aziraphale kissed him softly on the cheek,  
“It’s okay to be nervous, Crowley,” Crowley still held back, looking distraught,  
“I don’t know,” he began, fidgeting under Aziraphale’s gaze,  
“What if Heaven finds out? You could fall, Aziraphale.” The angel frowned,  
“Oh, darling,” he sighed,  
“I’ve had the same worry for years. I realized something, though. Neither Heaven nor Hell could stop me from loving you.” He kissed him even harder this time, drawing him towards the bed. The door shut behind them and the room was engulfed in a warm glow. Aziraphale slid his hands up Crowley’s t-shirt against the duvet, fingers drawing against ribs. Crowley’s mind spun. The angel’s hands felt hot against his skin as he held back ridiculous squeals. His blue eyes twinkled in the low light, his kisses pitter-pattering gently down Crowley’s bare chest. He bit his lip, on the verge of tears. He never, ever thought this would happen. He wrapped himself around his angel and finally let out a deep moan, like there was no tomorrow. There was no holding back anymore. 

Stars twinkled on the ceiling in the dark of night, or maybe that was just an illusion in Aziraphale’s eyes. He traced his fingertips up and down Crowley’s spine, cool air blowing in from the window. He was thankful he had soundproofed the bookshop, all those years ago. It was primarily to keep out the city noises, but it worked for other purposes, too, he supposed. Crowley sniffled, laying his head on Aziraphale’s chest. He had cried three separate times already, mumbling senselessly.  
“I never thought this would happen,” he said, again.  
“I know, dear,” Aziraphale kissed his forehead.  
Crowley knew it was ridiculous, but he couldn’t stop repeating himself. He had waited so long and the actual physical lust of it was exhausting. Aziraphale kept telling him it was alright to be nervous. He could be vulnerable, anxious, and emotional without scaring him away. It all became too much, as years of repression were let loose. For the first time, he felt connected with his feelings, with Aziraphale, with every cell of his earthly being. He was hit with pangs of nostalgia: the moments when he reached out to Aziraphale only to hold himself back, centuries of doubt, his few dismal romantic encounters. He spent years wrapped up in jealousy and self-loathing, doubt and anger. It was about damn time to have a good cry.


	3. Chapter 3

As time went on, Aziraphale grew less and less fond of modern music. Most of what he listened to was written prior to 1950, and even then, he stuck mostly to classical. Occasionally, though, he would turn on the radio, curious what the humans were into these days. Usually he found himself somewhat intrigued, but he had stopped listening to modern music for good a few years back. In 2014, during a quiet day in the bookshop, he switched on the modern station and sat back to listen for a while. It was fine, he supposed, until one song struck him. He admired the quiet guitar as it started, but as the lyrics continued on, he was overwhelmed with emotion. Innocents died screaming, honey ask me, I should know. I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. His mind spun. He admired the affinity Crowley had for music, he knew how much it meant to him, but he’d never shared the connection. He hadn’t anticipated to hear a song that could be written by the demon himself. To the strand, a picnic plan for you and me. Tears welled up in his eyes and he found himself sobbing through the end. He slammed the off button a little too hard, pursing his lips and suppressing a sob. There was nothing he could do for Crowley. He knew, had known for centuries, how desperately he had fallen for him. Crowley sacrificed himself, his position, his happiness, for Aziraphale. It wasn’t that Aziraphale didn’t reciprocate, but he couldn’t bring himself to concede with his feelings. It wasn’t right. He couldn’t love a demon! Really, a demon. Of all things. But he did. So, very deeply. It felt wrong to hurt Crowley with his absence and distance, but it could be so much worse. Heaven could damn him, he could lose everything. And what of hell? Crowley was in no position to fraternize with angels. The song remained in the back of his mind, until one day, he heard Crowley mumbling the tune: honey you’re familiar, like my mirror years ago.   
… 

Crowley ventured downstairs, humming to himself, and noticed a beaming, waving child waiting anxiously outside the shop window. As he opened the door, the kid’s face dropped in surprise.   
“Who are you?” He asked,   
“I might ask you the same question,” Said Crowley,  
“I’m Seamus. Where’s Mr. Fell?”   
“He’s busy, why?”   
“You still haven’t answered my other question. Who are you and why are you dressed spooky?”   
“Because I am spooky,” Crowley began, before he was interrupted by Aziraphale behind him,   
“Seamus, is that you?”   
“Yes, Mr. Fell!” He chided,   
“You have a spooky man in your bookshop.”   
“Oh,” Aziraphale laughed,   
“That’s just Crowley, don’t let him fool you. Come in, come in.” Seamus pushed past Crowley with a book in his hand and gave it earnestly to Aziraphale.   
“This was my favorite book yet, sir! My dad said it was a good one, too.”   
“I’m glad you liked it, Seamus. Did you keep the binding in tip-top shape like you promised?”   
“Of course I did! We pinky swore, remember?”   
Crowley had absolutely no idea what was going on. Who was this kid and why did he talk like a Charles Dickens character?  
“What book is it?” Crowley asked, leaning next to Aziraphale.   
“The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” Seamus answered,   
“Never heard of it,” Crowley mumbled. This kid was the spitting image of Aziraphale. He wore golden horn-rimmed glasses and had light brown hair, swept back like an old professor. His jumper was far too big for him, most likely a hand-me-down. At probably about ten years old, he was brighter and smarter than most other children, and was drawn to the endless wonders offered by the bookshop. Aziraphale had been exchanging books with him, teaching him to write his own personal fictions, and letting him read in the shop for over two years. He’d started bringing his friends around, too. Jess and Eric were regulars now, and the trio could sit together for hours reading classics and talking about their favorite characters.   
“What’s your favorite book, Mr. Crowley?”   
“Uh, I don't know,” Crowley said, crossing his arms,   
“I don’t really like reading,” Aziraphale gave him a teasing look, noticing his affinity for the child. Crowley always loved kids, mostly because he was one himself. Their imagination and pettiness matched his personality perfectly.   
“You might like reading, you just need to find the right book,” Seamus said, matter of fact. Crowley frowned, remembering when Aziraphale said the same thing. There’s so much to be found in books, Crowley, if you just give it a chance. He never bothered to tell him how hard it was to focus on a page with his bad eyesight and short attention span. It was somewhat disheartening. He snapped back, realizing he had zoned out,   
“Here, I found one for you,” said Seamus, handing him a slim black book,  
“It’s short stories, so they’re easy for people who don’t like to read. Edgar Allen Poe. He was a nineteenth century American. He was spooky; like you.” Grateful butterflies rose in Crowley’s chest as he took the book,   
“Thanks, Seamus. I’ll try it,” He slipped the book under his arm and went into the kitchen. As he poured himself a cup of coffee, Aziraphale leaned into his shoulder and hummed.   
“What, angel?”   
“You’re just so nice, Crowley.”   
Crowley hissed, “I’m not nice,”   
“Okay, dear,” Aziraphale kissed his cheek and left, ruffling Seamus’ hair in the sitting room before settling in at his desk. 

For several hours they sat in silence, each of them reading in their own little nook. Crowley curled himself up in Aziraphale’s favorite armchair, trying desperately to read. He glanced over at Seamus and Aziraphale, so content with their noses in books. Aziraphale was glowing, his cheeks rosy and eyes glistening in the afternoon sunlight. Crowley felt like a dark, shadowy afterthought, and an idiot. Aziraphale spread kindness and knowledge with him everywhere he went, making the world a better place and teaching the next generation to be their best selves. What did Crowley do? He couldn’t even read. He squinted at the words again, chugging through page four at top speed. He definitely liked the idea of “The Black Cat,” but couldn’t figure out what was happening. After two more pages, he couldn’t take it anymore. He threw the book to the ground, where it landed with a smack.   
“Crowley!” Aziraphale scolded, suddenly across the room,  
“Don’t throw my books around like that!” He picked the book off the floor and checked it for damages.   
“Was that really necessary?” He asked, exasperated,   
“Yeah, it was. I fucking hate books. I can’t read them and they’re dumb anyway,” Crowley said, rising from his seat and stomping out the door. The storefront slammed shut just as Aziraphale shouted,   
“Language!” 

A few blocks away was Crowley’s all-time favorite record shop. He aspired to buy more modern records, the old stuff was excellent, as always, but he liked to keep up with the music of the times. Did he regret storming out of the bookshop? Only a little. The most awkward part was he didn’t really know where else to go. For all intents and purposes, he lived there, and so he had to stroll aimlessly until it was appropriate for him to go back without arguing with Aziraphale. It wasn’t actually Aziraphale that had upset him in the first place, anyway. He fingered through crisp, seran-wrapped records as his head spun in thought. It also, he remembered, was not the first time he had stormed out of the bookshop. Aziraphale was constantly irritating in a way only someone you’ve known for six centuries could irritate you. He knew each of Crowley’s fatal flaws and sometimes it felt like he was using them purposefully in spite. He watched Crowley get frustrated and angry, never thinking to take a step back and let him brew his own personal wrath. They pittered around each other in endless circles, between Crowley’s absurd fits and Aziraphale’s periods of closed-off pithiness. Fortunately, they were both excruciatingly aware of this situation, and failed to address it nonetheless. After mulling about for some time, Crowley returned to the bookshop. 

Seamus had gone and Aziraphale retired to the back room, making stacks of old editions he felt needed a new home. Crowley sauntered in and held a tattered record out to Aziraphale.   
“I brought you a new record,” he said, lowering his gaze. Aziraphale knew this was his version of an apology.   
“You can set it just there, thank you, Crowley.” He said, obviously short. Crowley set the record atop a massive pile of encyclopedias and turned to leave. He flipped through the other three he’d gotten for himself and decided against turning them on in the storefront. He remembered Aziraphale had an actual nineteenth century gramophone, far inferior to the expensive 1990s turntable back at his place. Instead, he wandered upstairs for a nap. 

Crowley woke with the sun still shining and groaned. He’d hoped he could at least sleep through the night, avoiding Aziraphale’s irritable silent-treatment a little longer. He reached for his sunglasses on the bed-stand and found they were oddly shaped in his grasp. He rubbed his eyes and gave them a serious glance. They were, in fact, no longer his sunglasses. Instead, he was holding a pair of sparkling new eyeglasses, with matte black frames and golden inlets. They were more square than his usual shades, too, which simply didn’t suit him. Either way, he supposed he needed some sort of glasses, and slipped them on his face. Not only did they fit like a glove, but suddenly he could see clearer than a hawk. His usual, blurry, color-adverse vision was now more pristine than he’d ever imagined. Is this really how other people experienced the world? Full range of colors, crisp edges, detail from several feet away? The whole idea struck him as vaguely impossible. It would take a miracle to…   
“Aziraphale!” He shouted,   
“What the hell did you do with my bloody glasses?” Aziraphale creaked upstairs with a soft smile.   
“You don’t like the new ones?” He chided,   
“Oh, so you did do this. I knew it. What makes you think,” He was cut off abruptly,   
“If you don’t like them I can miracle them out of existence as well.”   
Crowley pursed his lips,   
“They’re incredible, angel. Thank you.” It was the most sincere thing he’d said all day.   
“You’re welcome,” Aziraphale began,   
“Now, please stop moping and find something to do. A hobby, maybe? You know, reading might be a lot easier with…”   
“How did you know?” Crowley inquired,  
“Know what?”  
“Know the words were all blurry on the page like squiggly, I don’t know, squiggly… ugly little bugs or something?”   
“First of all, I’m not an imbecile. Six thousand years and you still think I have absolutely no intuition! It’s astounding, really, quite astounding.” He paused for a moment, before continuing his chattering,   
“Anyway, you’re always squinting and you can hardly read anything longer than a telegram, or textual message, if that’s what they call them. Your electronics are always very bright and you rarely seem able to focus on a book. Sometimes you read the papers, I suppose. So I thought: maybe some spectacles would help. Now that you can see more clearly I thought maybe we could,” He was interrupted as Crowley tackled him onto the pillows, humming and kissing him with wild glee. Aziraphale giggled,   
“Crowley, really! You’ve thanked me quite enough,”   
“I still have a whole evening of thanking to do, sweets. Go ahead and stop me,” his whisper was vaguely threatening, but Aziraphale, of course, responded by wrapping his thighs around Crowley’s waist in delight. It turns out he’d never been angry to begin with.


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley had finally taken up “a hobby” as Aziraphale suggested, and it turned out much to the angel’s benefit. All morning, beginning around three, Crowley had been in the kitchen, preparing a four-course breakfast. By preparing, he meant singing terribly at the top of his lungs while stirring cinnamon and butter. Sometimes he held the spoon like a guitar; if he wasn't licking it clean, that is. He had taken up cooking, or baking, more specifically, in the late eighteenth century after Aziraphale nearly died to get his hands on some crepes. He figured crepes couldn’t be too hard to make, especially with a little demonic pizzazz. After several tries, he found they were much better the human way. Full of dough and fruits and goodness. He hadn’t tried in a long time, though, after he became simply too depressed and lazy to do anything at all, much less bake sweets he had no interest in eating. Today was different. Today was the fourth day of the rest of his life, and damn it all, he was going to cook. He no longer had to squint to read the recipes, and his first round of eggs florentine turned out exquisitely gorgeous and steaming hot. The prosciutto was spiced to perfection. Aziraphale came in excitedly, still in his pajamas and soft grey cardigan. Everything smelled absolutely exquisite.  
“They look excellent, darling!” He reached to grab a bite with his fingers, but Crowley slapped his hand away,   
“No previews! Get out of here, foul fiend,” He pushed him gently out and resumed stirring his lemon custard. 

Thirty minutes later, when the table was set without flaw, Crowley came bursting out of the kitchen like a fiery hipster waiter. His new glasses made him look very nouveau-chic, Aziraphale thought. And sexy. Smart, quite dashing…   
“Breakfast is served!” He smiled like a television salesman as he placed chocolate-covered strawberries and hot coffee in front of Aziraphale.   
“For the first course, we have gourmet dark chocolate strawberries, paired with my special hazelnut coffee, served sweet like the angel themself. For the next course, eggs florentine, with broccoli florets, followed by sour lemon custard crepes with, you guessed it, fresh strawberry filling, fit for the season, and finally,” he stopped for air,   
“Creme brulee.” The sheer joy on Aziraphale’s face was unbeatable.   
“Isn’t there any for you, Crowley?” He asked, mid-bite.   
“I’m fine with coffee, thanks.” He reached across for the steaming pour-over. Aziraphale set down his fork with a clink. Crowley immediately sensed a lecture.   
“You need to eat, Crowley. I know you and your old serpent senses aren’t too keen on people food, but you’re really quite human, you know. Have some eggs, or maybe your delicious strawberries?”   
“I said I’m fine, angel.” 

…   
Contrary to common belief, Crowley ate. In fact, he ate at very regimented, scheduled intervals. He also ate carefully chosen, specific foods, most of which would be considered “whole foods” by modern-day humans and all their bizarre eating standards. Yes, alright, he hadn’t eaten for the better part of the turn of the century, but most of that could be attributed to his distaste for food overall. Snakes, first of all, only eat once every week or two, at which time they consume massive meals. Crowley always preferred this pattern of eating but found his human form took rather nastily to it. He could, however, go a very long time without eating. Sometimes it simply got away from him, other times he could go ages without eating. He hadn’t consumed a single bite for the entirety of 2007. That was the worst of it, of course. A string of bad days beginning in 1991 had finally culminated in an extreme 35-lb weight loss that made strangers start asking questions. Crowley had been presenting female at the time, and was quite pleased with the attention she got for being so thin. Everyone loved a skinny lady. When people started asking if she’d seen a doctor, though, it went a bit too far. The upcoming Apocalypse really wasn’t helping with motivation, either, and in 2009 Crowley learned about anorexia nervosa in a teen magazine advertisement. He shrugged it off. The Schedule, though, came out of a revelation only three years ago that eating made him feel a lot less woozy, and for the first time in over 20 years, he ate meals like a normal human being. He began frequenting farmer’s markets and since then became an absolute connoisseur for heirloom tomatoes. The old ladies at the whole-wheat bread booth loved sharing gossip with him on Friday mornings. He called it a Lifestyle, but really it was his best form of recovery. 

Aziraphale had remained completely oblivious to all of this, so far as Crowley knew, especially since the majority of the 2000s had been composed of them trying to raise Warlock as a normal child. They were distracted and somewhat separated from each other, and Crowley did an excellent job of hiding her weight loss in Nanny Ashtoreth’s bows and ruffles. There was once when Aziraphale nearly kissed Crowley against a shed in the Ambassador’s garden and commented concertedly on her hollow cheeks, but they both were more flustered by the idea of kissing than the passing comment. The Whole Food Routine™ , as Crowley liked to call it, consisted of two-day cycles and intermittent trips to the grocery shop mid-week. He ate five meals within two days, two breakfasts, one lunch, and two dinners, then didn’t eat for another two days. Breakfast consisted of one egg, fresh from one of two hens, named Martha and Edie, who lived in a coop in Surrey. The egg went with one slice of whole wheat bread from the market ladies and half an avocado from the downtown Sainsbury’s. He topped it with that stupid Everything but the Bagel seasoning, which he bought monthly online. Lunch and dinner varied, but dinner always involved either kale or the dark purple tomatoes he’d rediscovered earlier that spring. In three years he hadn’t broken it, and cooking a brilliant gourmet breakfast wasn’t going to change that. He never ate in front of Aziraphale, anyway, because he knew the angel and his rich, bourgeoise tastes would scoff at Millennial-inspired fusions and militant schedules. He’d have to break it to him sometime soon, though, especially since Aziraphale’s grocery shopping was severely lacking locally-sourced charm.   
… 

“Whatever you say. You’ll have to eat eventually.” Aziraphale took his first bite of crepe and mmm’d mockingly.   
“I, actually,” Crowley hesitated,  
“Yeah, uh, I ate breakfast earlier.”   
“Fibbing, my dear.”   
Crowley scoffed,   
“I’m not fibbing! Fibbing? Are we schoolchildren?”   
“You’re the one being childish. You don’t even want lemon custard?” Crowley pushed away Aziraphale’s eager spoonful and reached for the platter of broccoli. He picked a few stalks out onto his plate and gave an obvious there, now shut up motion with his arms. He nibbled at it angrily while Aziraphale continued licking his lips, with a little too much enjoyment. 

Crowley stood with his hands on his hips at the entry to his apartment. If he was really going to move out, he needed to bring some stuff with him. The plants, for one. The turntable, television, and his laptop, for another. The modern technologies Aziraphale despised. He wrestled a suitcase out from under his bed and began filling it with records, bags of fertilizer, and black sweaters. Eventually, he realized shoving things in a bag wasn’t going to help, and began tossing them into the backseat of the Bentley instead. After he’d pillaged every last accessory, seedling, and throw pillow he could find, he snapped his fingers and turned to leave. A “For Lease” sign appeared on the door of the flat, with a contact to one of London’s top realtors, who would be shocked to discover the place in such a pristine condition. When Crowley began unloading at the bookshop, Aziraphale was visibly disgusted.   
“Where on earth are you going to put that awful skull pillow?”   
“His name is Igor and he belongs right here, on this armchair.”   
“Agh, Crowley! This isn’t a gothic renaissance fair.”  
“If you want me to live here, then you need to accept some redecorating, yes?”   
“Fine,” Aziraphale huffed,   
“But no moving books without my explicit permission.” 

By the end of the day, the space was expertly decorated and cleaned from top to bottom. Plants had populated the windowsills and tops of bookshelves quite tastefully, and after much squabble, the turntable had replaced the hideous old gramophone. The tartan quilts upstairs matched surprisingly well with the dark grey duvet and black sequin throw pillows. The best part, though, was the shelf overflowing with vinyls in the back of the shop. Aziraphale had organized it chronologically, with most of his records falling in the earlier categories. Crowley hung his jacket in the wardrobe and sat dangling from the first floor to admire their work. It was completely, unabashedly, them.


	5. Chapter 5

Aziraphale woke on Friday morning to find Crowley dressed in a black turtleneck, rubbing gel into his hair.  
“Heading out?” He grumbled, unsure of what time it was.  
“Yeah. You know, secret demon business to attend to,” He furrowed his brows at himself in the mirror, disappointed in his hair’s decision to stand straight up.  
“Bollocks, you don’t have any secret business to attend to! Where are you really going to?”  
“The market, if you must know,” Crowley sighed,  
“I have to get there early to get some of Berta’s bread. She saves some for me every week.”  
“Freshly baked bread? Sounds like I’m coming.” He got out of bed and pulled an already expertly prepared outfit out of his dresser, stacked with a clean-pressed bowtie, underclothes, and all. Crowley rolled his eyes. 

The morning air was crisp with the first inklings of autumn, and Crowley wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck. Aziraphale snuck a kiss on his cheek as they headed out the door. The nervous energy in his veins was certainly more than just caffeine, and Crowley really was not prepared to answer the questions Aziraphale would undoubtedly have. They walked in silence for a while, enjoying the sunshine, reflecting on the beginning of their quiet life together. Crowley was simply buzzing.  
When they reached the market, a babble of old ladies waved hello at the first booth, greeting Crowley warmly. He gave them each quick hugs and beamed, pointing around at different loaves of bread in his fingerless gloves, before turning to Aziraphale.  
“Ladies, this is Aziraphale,” He said gesturing towards him. He smiled and waved hello, blending in perfectly with their chatter. Their gossip for years had leant towards the mysterious lover Crowley clearly longed for, and finally meeting him was a topic of much conversation over the next few days.  
“Oh, dear, you really are a softie after all!” Cried Berta, as Crowley’s face turned bright red.  
“Alright that’s enough, just some sourdough please.”  
Aziraphale lingered behind, gasping and giggling while Crowley wandered off. He turned over a zucchini. Is this what normal couples did? Go shopping and bond with the shop ladies? Choose gourds and goat milk soaps? The entire experience was alien to Crowley. Demons weren’t kitschy; was reusable wax wrap kitschy? After surviving the experience, Crowley was sufficiently embarrassed and shoved his hands deep in his pockets on the way home. Aziraphale carried on about the kindness of the market folk, the ripe apples, and his extra-sweetened latte. 

Well, Crowley thought, this is eternity, I guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually know where I'm going with this fic but I have tons of awful content written. Stay tuned.


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